There's a dear little plant that grows in our Isle,
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it,
And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines thro' the bog, through the brake and the mire-land,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland
The dear Little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock
The dear Little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.